The After
by svuxfanfic
Summary: Post-Undercover. "She omits every detail she can. Admit what you can't deny, deny what you can't admit. And this is something she could never admit. To anyone. She waters it down, laying out a frame that would, hopefully, be enough to explain away the bruises and take him out of that place for good."
1. Chapter 1

**Just a warning for general darkness and mentions of sexual assault. Post-Sealview, that's all you need to know.**

* * *

She's passed through this hallway a thousand times, but suddenly the walls of the sixteenth precinct feel unfamiliar around her. Everything looks foreign, surreal, like the world is made up of broken fragments, melted together by her mind in an attempt to feign some semblance of reality. She blinks, once, twice, hoping to clear away the fog like sleep from her eyes, but she seems to be sealed into this state of artificiality. A thick film of darkness spreads over her lens and everything feels so far away. Out of reach. With distant horror, she wonders if this is what the rest of her life will be: Existing, but just barely.

Fin's hand on her back is the only thing that guides her forward, steering her as her body has shifted into neutral. They are in the squad room now. She's cold. She's tired. And, even through the numbness, she's afraid. That is all she registers, on repeat, like a mantra. _Cold. Tired. Afraid…_ Sore _._ She tries not to think about that. She wants to go home. But now they are standing in Cragen's office, and she's not sure when they got there because she doesn't remember entering through the door, doesn't remember passing her desk or seeing Elliot or Munch or anyone outside. But she's here. Cold. Tired. Afraid. And her captain is giving her a look that makes her veins ice over - a look akin to pity, and it makes her sick. He's never looked at her that way before. Her heart beats a little faster at the sight because it's like he _knows._ But he can't know, because Fin promised.

 _He promised_.

"I'll need both of your written statements on my desk by the end of tomorrow," the captain's voice breaks through to her, "For tonight, just go h-"

"I'll do it now," her voice surprises all three of them, and they turn to her. She winces. It hurts to speak.

Cragen gives her a look like he wants to object, but all it takes is one lingering glance at her bloodshot eyes, at the slowly-forming tendril of yellow on her jaw before he's reaching in his desk, handing her the papers. She doesn't know if she's more relieved or disturbed that he's letting her win so easily.

It takes her less than thirty minutes to do what should be hours of paperwork, mostly because she omits every detail she can. Admit what you can't deny, deny what you can't admit. And this is something she could never admit. To anyone. She waters it down, laying out a frame that would, hopefully, be enough to explain away the bruises and take him out of that place for good. _"Excessive force"_ is the colorless phrase she uses in lieu of the razor sharp image of his hips grinding into hers, her face smashed against concrete. _"Forceful touching"_ as opposed to the feeling of his fingers in her hair. She tries to convince herself that Fin hadn't seen. She has to believe that the trajectory of his body and hers had blocked his view of the worst moment of her life. It is a stretch, but she lies to herself anyway because the alternative is overwhelming to think about, even in this half-existence she seems to be living.

She jumps out of her skin when Fin approaches from behind, touching his palm to her shoulder.

"Sorry," he mutters.

She doesn't speak.

"You need a lift home?"

"No," she whispers. She can't look him in the eye. He hovers for a few seconds before she realizes he is reading over her shoulder. A blush rises to her cheeks as she moves her hand to cover her writing.

"So that's the story?" He asks gently. At this, she finally turns to him, finding no accusation in his eyes. Only allegiance. Loyalty. She can't find her words, so she prays her eyes will do her bidding. They must, because he nods, no questions asked.

"Got it," he squeezes her shoulder, eyes flashing with something like guilt as he steps away, "Night, Liv. Get some sleep."

For the second time today, she thanks her lucky stars for Fin Tutuola.

When she walks the paperwork back into Cragen's office, she keeps her eyes flat, void of the emotions she feels stirring behind them.

"Should I assume there's no point in asking if you want to take some time off?" He watches her, looking for answers her lips would never speak.

"No need," she replies simply, her best attempt at firmness. He nods. He waits a beat.

"Lowell Harris is going to be here tomorrow," he warns, his voice cautious, "He's in holding overnight, but we're putting him in the box first thing in the morning."

"I'll do it."

"Liv," he starts to argue, letting his eyes fall shut like he knew this was coming.

"I need to do it" she all but begs, and the desperation in her voice scares him. He's never heard Olivia Benson beg for anything. He doesn't like the sound. "I need to be the one."

He stares her down, every fiber of his being screaming at him, warning against the idea. The same voice of warning that told him not to let her step foot into that prison in the first place. But as he watches the defiance in her eyes flicker in and out between flashes of exhaustion, his resolve gives way to softness. She needs this, indeed. He nods once, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Go home. Get some rest," he tells her, "I'll see you here first thing tomorrow."

She attempts a grateful smile, but it falls just short, like the unsatisfactory growl of a car engine that won't turn over. Distantly, she feels a spark of panic. For the first time in a long time, possibly ever, her Emmy award winning performance of being _okay_ feels unmanageable. Like she might physically curl up and die before she has to flash a halfway convincing smile. Shake a hand. Give a hug. But she will figure it out. She has to. She will do it no matter what because she's Olivia Benson and that's how she deals with things. Suppress. Move along. Start the engine or get out and push.

Before she leaves the office, Cragen stops her.

"Hey..."

When she turns back to him, she only meets his eyes for a moment. She knows what's coming and she dreads it.

"If you want to talk about what happened…"

"It's all in the paperwork," she stops him immediately.

But it's not. Not even close. She breaks away coldly, bidding him goodnight with a curt nod. The walls are closing in and she has to get out of there fast - before her skin fades transparent and he can see the lies that course through the veins beneath. Pushing out of his office and through the empty squad room, she keeps her mind on the sole focus of getting home, to the solitude and isolation she so desperately craves to fall apart, and the shower that has been calling her name for five hours. The distance between here and her front door feels far too wide and full of darkness and strangers on the street that suddenly seem more terrifying than ever before, but she swears nothing can get in her way.

That is, until the elevator doors slide open to reveal a red-faced and panting Elliot Stabler.

"Liv," he breathes, "I'm glad I caught you before you left."

She freezes. She isn't prepared to face him. Not now, not when the sting of her trauma is still so fresh. She doesn't know if she can hide it.

"What are you still doing here?" Her voice breaks off, making her cringe. So much for keeping up a solid performance.

"I've been waiting here all afternoon," he says, stepping out of the elevator, "I just stepped out to grab a bite to eat. But I wanted to make sure you got back okay after hearing about the outbreak. I tried to get you out of there right away when I heard, but by then the prison was already locked down..."

He stops, realizing he's rambling, and lets his eyes scan over her. If he notices the evidence of violence in the dim lighting, he gives no indication.

" Anyway - welcome back to the real world," he sighs, "I heard you caught Harris."

It takes a conscious effort not to gag at the name.

"You talked to Fin?" she searches his eyes, scoping for answers. Feeling him out. How much does he know? He must catch onto her hidden panic - of course he does - because he squints at her, eyeing her curiously.

"I passed him on the way in. He didn't say much," he paused, "Why? Should he have?"

She swallows hard, burning under his gaze.

"No," Olivia sends up a silent prayer, pleading to him with her eyes to believe her lie and let it go. For a few weighted breaths, she thinks he might. But of course her luck doesn't carry that far, and her heart jumps when his gaze drops to her jaw. His eyes widen.

"Woah, did Harris do this to you?"

She recoils when he takes a step closer, raising a hand to her only noticeable bruise. If only he could see the ones hiding behind her clothes. Her heartbeat slams against her ribcage as they stare each other down under the weight of his question. She tries to form words, formulate a lie, or a less brutal truth, but she can't speak as her mind replays the explosion of pain that had overtaken her when Harris's hand collided with her cheek, knocking her into the metal door that would haunt her nightmares for years to come.

"Liv-"

"Yes. He did."

She expects rage. Instant and explosive. She expects him to resurrect the Elliot Stabler he reserves for drastic measures, where his mouth floods with questions, voice raises, and fists are thrown at some unsuspecting drywall. When she senses movement at his sides, she watches his fingers curl until they drain white and she's sure this is it. She braces herself. His eyes flash with something strong, something fleeting but very much there. But he is quiet. Instead, he neutralizes his expression and cracks a rueful smile.

"I'd hate to see what he looks like."

The relief that floods her veins is immediate. She feels like she needs to fake some sort of laugh here, or retort with a snappy comeback that shows just how okay she is. Her brain gives her all the right cues, but it's all she can do to paint a crooked half smile onto her face.

"You want to grab a bite to eat? I can swing you by your place after," he offers, "I can't wait to hear how you took this son of a bitch down."

As he brushes past the intensity of the conversation, it becomes abundantly clear to her: he has no idea.

 _Good._

"So, whadya say?"

"Huh?" She doesn't realize she has spaced out until he dips his head into her line of sight, eyebrow cocked.

"You up for a burger or something?"

"Oh," she clears her throat, crossing her arms over her chest, "Um. I'm actually pretty tired. I think I'm just going to head home for the night."

"Okay," he shrugs, "Well, I can still drive you home-"

"I'll be okay, El. Goodnight."

She makes the first move to leave, but he reaches for her wrist as she brushes past him, and it takes every ounce of will she has not to jump out of her skin. Out of his sight, she shuts her eyes tight, and the second she turns back to him she regrets it, because there it is. Spelled out clear as day across his face.

Skepticism.

"Olivia," he lowers his voice even though there is no one around to hear, "Is everything okay?"

Unable to tolerate the feeling of restraint any longer, she pulls her wrist from his grasp, probably a little too forcefully. He lets his hand drop to his side as her eyes grow hard and detached, glazing over. She swallows hard, feeling the tears claw their way to the surface. She has to get out of there. Now. Because she's cold. She's tired. She's afraid. And her eyes are burning because in the morning, she will stand face to face with Lowell Harris. She will put on her mask and walk into work, level his gaze and not turn away. She will prove to her squad, herself, and that sad excuse for a human being that she is unafraid. Unbroken.

She will push through it.

She will survive.

But that is tomorrow. And this is tonight.

"I said _goodnight_ , Elliot," she turns away.

And for the first time in her life, she cannot bring herself to pretend.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: I forgot how to upload things to this site. But here I am. Just a little something to flex the old writing muscles. Enjoy.**

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Everything hurt. It seemed to Olivia that the numbness she'd been granted in the immediate aftermath had vanished all too quickly, replaced by a cold slap of reality in the form of physical agony. The feeling returned to her body in the same way an injection of poison might have felt trickling into her veins. It washed over her mercilessly, a wave of awareness that awoke her nerves in rapid succession, bringing life and memory back to the places her mind had fought to protect. Her stomach. Her back. Her knees. All the spots on her body that she was sure, though she had not yet been brave enough to check, were glowing deep purple and red. They ached horribly and made it increasingly difficult to climb the four flights of stairs that, in all the years of living in her building, had never before felt so grueling. When she reached her floor, she was out of breath and had to stop to hold her side, which was now cramping from the effort. She felt pathetic. Leaning against the feeble wooden railing, she glanced down the hallway at her apartment door, marveling at how vast an expanse twenty feet suddenly seemed.

By the time she reached her door, she was exhausted. She stole a few paranoid glances over her shoulder as she fumbled with her keys, frustrated with her hands which refused cooperate with the jingling metal. She was on the verge of tears when she finally felt the rigid edge of the key slide into the lock and twist, but her relief ended there. Once she was inside, securely locked away from the world she had longed to escape all day, the silence collapsed in on her, an unbearable weight. For the first time in days, she was entirely alone. The craving for privacy that had consumed her only minutes ago felt like a cruel twist of fate now that the silence filled her only with emptiness and she was left, for the first time in what was sure to be an unblinking eternity, to stare into the face of the world as she had never known it. Her new reality.

She had almost made it to the shower, having wrestled with herself for nearly thirty minutes over the prospect of removing her clothes and being forced to face the physical evidence that was written all over her body. Avoiding the mirror, she stepped inside the tub reached for the handle on the shower, finding herself cringing in anticipation of a cold blast as she had conditioned herself in Sealview. Just as she was about to release the spray of water, a muffled knock sounded from out in the living room. She froze. She was quiet, so quiet she could hear her heartbeat which seemed to be rising up into her throat, and she remained perfectly still, listening for the sound again. Before she could convince herself that she was just hearing things, the knock came again, louder this time, and more evident that it was coming from the front door.

Her first thought was Elliot, and her eyes slipped shut, a breath of both relief and irritation slipping between clenched teeth. Of course he couldn't just let her go after the way she left things at the station. She should have expected him to show up, checking to make sure she was okay. Her stomach did a nauseating flip at the thought. Would this be the way things were now?

 _No,_ she reminded herself, hastily stepping out of the tub and pulling her clothes back on, _Because he doesn't know the truth. You made sure of it._

Trying to convince herself that it was just a normal partnerly check-in, that she would do the same for him after an undercover stint, she padded across the living room to the door. Checking one last time to see that her robe covered as many of the bruises as possible, she put on her best mask of irritation and opened the door.

"Elliot, I thought I told you-"

She cut off abruptly when saw that the figure in her hallway was not, in fact, her partner, but her boyfriend of three months, Kurt Moss. His apprehensive smile twitched upon her greeting.

"Expecting someone else?" he chuckled nervously, fidgeting with the bouquet in his hand.

She glanced down at the flowers then back at him, stumbling in her recovery.

"Oh," she blinked, wincing at how coarse her voice sounded, "No, Kurt, I- Sorry, I thought you might have been my partner. I thought I told you I would see you tomorrow-"

"And that you were fine?" he finished for her, "I know, I heard you. I also heard it in your voice that you were lying."

Her mouth was slightly agape, searching for something to say in the awkward silence, when she really just wanted to shut him out and take a damn shower.

"These are for you," he seemed to finally remember the bouquet in his hand, thrusting it out in front of him, "So… Can I come in?"

 _No,_ she screamed inside her head, _You can go home and leave me alone like I told you to hours ago._

But he was staring at her, looking almost as pathetic as the half-wilted flowers in his hand, and she was too tired to argue. Defeated, she took the bouquet and stepped back to allow him entrance. Taking no notice of her hesitancy, he ambled into her apartment - far too comfortably for a boyfriend of only three months, she noted with a twinge of annoyance - and took a seat on her couch, patting the cushion beside him in invitation. Olivia stood shackled in position, a swell of panic filling her chest. There were a number of factors at play here, not least of which was the hint of flirtation in his eyes as he beckoned to her and the complete unfathomability of engaging in any sort of intimate contact with him, or any other human on the planet right then. But her legs moved without command, the instinct to keep up her front of normalcy apparently stronger than her instinct for self preservation.

She turned her face away as she sank into the open seat in an attempt to conceal the pained expression as her sore muscles screamed in protest. Attempting any semblance of a relaxed posture proved more difficult than she'd anticipated, and she prayed he wouldn't take note of the unusually large gap she'd left between them on the couch. Unsurprisingly, life couldn't be bothered to grant her even this simplest of reprieves, and he turned to her with a crooked smirk.

"I won't bite," he prodded, angling toward her and extending an open arm over the back of the couch, "C'mere. I've missed you."

The bubble that formed in her chest moments ago now seemed to burst, releasing a toxic dread inside her. Forcing a smile that surely came off as a grimace at best, Olivia braced her hands against the cushions beneath her, pushing herself a few inches closer. Her meek attempt was overshadowed as he met her halfway, closing the distance completely to pull her into his side with a one-armed embrace. Grateful that her face was hidden from his view, she squeezed her eyes shut as his fingers swept her hair, a kiss landing on her head. Then it was he that went rigid.

"Woah, Olivia…" he said, his fingers hovering right above the sore spot on her cheek that she knew was glowing a deep purple by now.

"It's nothing," she brushed him off immediately, using the shift in conversation as an excuse to pull away.

"It doesn't look like nothing," he persisted, his expression one of genuine concern, "What happened, hon?"

 _What a loaded question,_ she thought, and one she had no intention of diving into.

"Really, it's fine. There was… an altercation with a perp I was taking down."

"He hit you?" Kurt sat up, a rare anger seeping into his tone.

She almost had to laugh at his reaction. If only he knew. If only Harris had _just_ hit her. If only the recovery ahead of her consisted of an ice pack and a couple over-the-counter painkillers instead of a daunting ride down an unlit path, into a forest she may never find her way out of.

"Yeah," she conceded, "But it's not a big deal, seriously. I can take a punch. I've done it before."

His eyes moved over her with a mix of admiration and concern.

"It looks like it hurts," he commented, extending a hand to her face but letting it drop when she recoiled.

"A little," she allowed, pretending that her reaction had only to do with some physical pain.

"Did you take something for it?" He asked, "What about dinner, have you eaten?"

"Yeah," she lied, "Kurt, I'm good, thanks."

He seemed a little put off by her dismissive tone and did little to hide his pouting.

"Well it looks like there isn't much left for me to help with," he sulked, looking offended that she wasn't letting him play knight in shining armor.

 _Correct,_ she thought, _Why do you think I told you not to come over?_

But her annoyance made a quick jump to dread as she watched the change in his expression, a sparkle of flirtation reaching his eyes. He leaned in closer, snaking his arm behind her on the couch once again and she felt her throat constrict at the contact.

"You know, there's still one thing I'm good for," he whispered, inches from her face, the smell of artificial mint potent on his breath. He'd clearly had plans of his own when he came over. "Sounds like you've had a rough couple of days. Let me take your mind off it."

Then his lips were on her neck and she fought back a gag as his hand landed on her thigh.

"Stop," she whispered, but even though she could feel the words forming at her lips, her voice was quashed by the panic building in her throat.

"Kurt," she tried again, this time managing a hoarse croak that seemed to be misinterpreted for a cry of approval as his one hand slid higher up her leg. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing her voice to do her bidding.

"Stop," she repeated, the command coming out with more force than she'd been able to control. He pulled back to look at her, clearly startled.

"Not tonight," she said, already pushing back against the arm of the couch to force some distance between them. He was still staring at her like a kicked puppy as she stood from the couch and crossed her arms over her chest.

"You should go," she told him, hoping he couldn't hear the tremor in her voice as the stinging behind her eyes intensified, the repressed terror clawing its way to the surface. She kept her eyes trained on the couch beside him, pleading with herself to keep her emotions in check until he left.

"But I just got here, and I don't want to leave you here alone-"

"I want to be alone," she snapped back, unable to stop herself this time, "I tried to tell you that already. I told you I didn't want company tonight."

"But I thought…"

"Whatever you thought, Kurt, you were wrong. Please. Just go."

Much to Olivia's relief, he finally seemed to get the message, his determination giving way to defeat.

"Okay," he showed his palms in surrender, "I'll go. If you need me, if you need anything…"

The sincerity in his voice made Olivia's defensive spikes lower just the slightest, her eyes lifting to meet his again.

"I know," she whispered, "Thanks, Kurt."

He took a step closer as he passed her on the way to the door, swooping in for a kiss goodnight, and she flinched at the gesture. He broke away immediately, hurt and confusion evident in the eyes she was once again avoiding.

"Goodnight," he said. Then he was gone, she was alone once more, and in need of that shower more than ever.

The pattern continued for the next two weeks, a steady back-and-forth of him calling, begging to see her, and her shooting back at him with every excuse she could think of. Working overtime. Too tired from working overtime. At least the part about being tired wasn't a lie. Her nights were spent on the couch, because even when it was covered in familiar sheets and pillows, her bed still reminded her too much of the mattress that lived underneath, the one that lived in her head and the one she felt pressed into her skin at any given time of day. So the couch it was, and the flimsy throw blanket did little to keep out the cold as she sat awake at three in the morning, upright and exhausted, eyes red from staring too long at a screen she wasn't really watching. Because she couldn't see anything anyway, not really. It was as if some integral cord had been cut in her brain, the one that connected her eyes and ears and mouth and skin to the rest of her so that she couldn't feel, couldn't hear, couldn't see anything that was real. She was unplugged from reality in a way that would be terrifying if she was awake enough to feel it.

At work it was much of the same, except twice as exhausting when she had to mask it with the illusion of normalcy. The task had never been quite as daunting. Fin didn't hover, and she was glad for it, though she noticed somewhere beyond the fog that his eyes didn't meet hers quite as often as before. It occurred to her that she should probably talk to him, but then again she didn't think she was in any state to be particularly helpful in anyone else's emotional distress.

Elliot was a different story. Where Fin's attentiveness had dropped, her partner made up for tenfold in small ways that would be unrecognizable to anyone watching from the outside. The way his eyes lingered on her even after she looked away, how he stood just a tiny bit closer to her than usual when they were interrogating a suspect. Fortunately for him, she was numb enough to let it slide and pretend she didn't notice, hoping that if she kept up her facade convincingly enough, his concern would gradually fade.

Until the morning he caught her in the locker room.

She had gotten into the routine of hitting the gym early in the morning before work - it wasn't like she was sleeping anyway. It was still early that morning when she finished her run, early enough to avoid running into her squad before she had a chance to shower and change into her work clothes. Or so she thought. Maybe he'd been up early with the baby, or maybe he and Kathy had been fighting again. Whatever the reason, Elliot had decided to come in early. She froze when she heard footsteps outside the door but it was too late to cover herself before he walked in, catching an eyeful of the bruised skin her sports bra left exposed.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't-"

He was already turning around when he stopped short, but she saw it in his eyes before they turned away. He had seen. Taking advantage of his averted gaze, Olivia snatched her pullover from the bench and yanked it over her head, letting the material fall over the yellowed, mostly faded bruises on her torso. When her head poked through the neck of the sweatshirt, she saw he still hadn't moved. He was frozen solid, his hand over his mouth, eyes stagnant.

"What, Elliot?" She snapped, crossing her arms over her stomach, as if the material would somehow fade transparent and expose her secrets when he looked at her. But he didn't. Unmoving. Unspeaking.

"El, what the hell are you-"

"What did he do to you, Olivia?"

The panic that had begun growing in her throat the moment she heard his footsteps on the stairs had ballooned to the size of a grapefruit, cutting off her ability to speak, to breathe. Her silence prompted him to move from his statued state, turning to face her with a look that pierced her from across the room. As much as she wanted to, needed to, she couldn't break the contact.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she spoke evenly, her eyes daring him to challenge her. A dare he was all too willing to take.

"Liv, you know you can talk to me about anything," he spoke quietly, too gently, like he was afraid his very words would shatter her, "Please talk to me about this."

"Elliot."

"Don't tell me nothing happened," he stopped her before she could deny him, "I can see that something did."

She adjusted her posture, even more self conscious of the marks he had seen on her skin.

"I fell."

"I'm not just talking about the bruises."

Of course he wasn't. The bruises had only been confirmation of a truth he already suspected.

"What happened in the basement?"

His words, those dreaded words, drained all the sound from the room. She could hear her pulse beating in her ears, though she didn't know how when there was a scream so loud echoing off the filthy, concrete chamber that now made up her brain. The screaming grew louder, punctuated by the sharp sting of steel around her wrist, and it was all too much, too loud, too painful until she couldn't think, couldn't employ the filter she had been keeping up so well. He had triggered something inside of her that had been trying to break for two long weeks, and all bets were off now.

"What do you want me to say?" she sharpened her words into tiny, steel daggers, arming her to stand with shoulders back, her eyes leveling with his, "You want me to say that he raped me? Is that what you're waiting for, what you're all waiting for?"

She saw the hurt, the alarm that flashed in his eyes at her words, his breath hitching as if his lungs had turned to stone on the spot. He took half a step closer to her.

"Olivia…"

"He didn't!" she spoke over him, stepping back in sync with him, watching his heartbreak turn to relief and confusion, "Okay? Is that good enough for you? He didn't rape me. Now can you please move on with your life and stop hovering over me like I'm going to implode if you're not watching me twenty-four hours a day?"

"If he didn't, then what _did_ he do?" he pressed, "He obviously still hurt you. You're hurting."

"Let this go," she warned him, breaking their gaze as she turned to gather her clothes from the locker behind her. Closing the door with a satisfying slam, she slung her bag over her shoulder and pushed past him toward the door. When she could sense that he was about to push further, turning to follow her, she spun around to stop him.

"If you care about me," she spoke in a low, warning tone, "If you care about this partnership _at all…_ you will let this go."

And then she was gone, running down the steps to the squad room in a race against her tears, down the hallway, out the door, her mind replaying the wounded look she caught just before the door slammed in her partner's face.

Kurt called again that night, persistent as ever. This time to tell her not to be mad, but that he was standing outside her apartment. That he missed her. That he wanted to see her. Touch her. Much to the surprise of both of them, some great and inarticulate force of nature in Olivia that felt a lot like frustration released itself with unexpected velocity. And when Kurt showed up at her door, hands like an octopus and a mind on the only thing he seemed capable of these days, she found herself resisting the urge to shove his hands away from her body, biting back the surge of nausea as his mouth covered hers. He wasted no time in taking advantage of her dropped resistance, asking no questions about her suddenly weakened resolve and pushing straight for the bedroom.

This time, she let him.

She felt more like a passive bystander in the encounter, almost like a spectator in his performance of one as he ravaged her hungrily, selfishly on her bed, the only evidence of her discomfort a tight, blood-drained fist that she kept concealed beneath the pillow. She let her eyes fall on the spot of chipped paint around the knob on her door as he moved on top of her, allowing him to manipulate her body as he wanted. Choosing to focus on anything except the warm breath that came in short, fragmented pants against her neck, she noticed how the rest of the paint seemed to spiderweb out around the chip, tiny fault lines crackling outward from the initial point of stress. She wondered how much longer it would take before more pieces would chip and fall away. How much more strain it would take before every last flake of the crackled web lost its resolve to stick around, leaving nothing behind to disguise the ugly, stained wood underneath. She could always repaint it, touch up the spot around the handle that had given way to prolonged stress, but it would never hide it completely. She would always be able to see the dividing line where the new paint dried unevenly, unreconcilable with the part of the door that existed before the damage was done. It would be nothing but a bandage over a wound that needed surgery to repair. It would be naive to think a new coat of paint could do anything to change the fact that it would never, could never, be the same.


End file.
